


so many kids like me

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Popstar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler’s first impression of Seguin, besides the fact they share the same name, is that the kid is a bonafide dumbass who’s just asking to get himself stabbed. Or kidnapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so many kids like me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rsadelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsadelle/gifts).



> I told Ruth seven months ago that I'd written her popstar!Segs fic and she's probably forgotten all about this, but I didn't and I apologise it's taken me so long to get it to a postable level. This is not The Bodyguard AU you're looking for, I can pretty much guarantee it. D: All the songs mentioned in this are from Sammy Adams' discography; he's worth a listen if you're into that whole failed white boy fratbro stoner rap ~genre. 
> 
> There is a bit of problematic stuff in this, in true popstar style. There's mentioned violence against a fan at the start, and there's a bit of creepy/violent fan activity, so if that bothers you probably best not to read on. 
> 
> Thanks to NeuroticSquirrel for the beta, and I hope you enjoy!

\--

_TMZ: TYLER SEGUIN FINALLY FIRES EX-MARINE BODYGUARD_

_About four months too late, but Seguin can’t weather the backlash any longer and fired his long-term personal bodyguard as of yesterday evening._

_Ex-Marine Heath Shaw is currently embroiled in a lawsuit against one of Seguin’s fans, 22-year-old exotic dancer Yolanda Uritz, who claims she was put in a headlock when she and her friends rushed Seguin and his crew outside Nash nightclub in Toronto, ON._

_Seguin’s camp have maintained their innocence, and the paparazzi around the club corroborate with their people, but Uritz suffered facial lacerations as a result of the beatdown and reported the incident to police that same evening._

_Regardless of the result, Seguin’s name has been tarnished by the event and his management have fired Shaw’s ass. Who knows what kind of bruiser they’ll dig up next to protect Island Records’ golden boy?_

 

* * *

 

“No.”

It’s two in the fucking morning, and Tyler is currently stuck in Terry Richardson’s apartment. He’s lined up against the back wall with an agent, a publicist and four make up artists while his latest charge flirts for the camera, off his face on coke. Tyler knows this because he had to watch him snort two lines off Richardson’s toilet, and he might be only twenty-four but he’s so fucking tired of all this shit.

“We’ve been hired by Island Records, they need a new bodyguard for Tyler Seguin, that new popstar kid, the one with the tattoos and that song, _Boston’s Son_ or whatever. The kid whose old guy punched that dancer,” his boss, Dave Schultz, says as soon as Tyler picks up.

Tyler knows exactly who the kid is. He likes the song, had pre-ordered the album on iTunes and had a few mixtapes that Seguin released before Island signed him.

“It was a headlock. And you know my rules,” Tyler says, shifting from one foot to the other. He’s in jeans, a Flyers hoodie and his Timberlands-- he’d been in bed when he was rudely awoken to follow this asshole across the city for a pointless photoshoot.

“No popstars? Boy, I’m your boss and the rules are what I say they are,” Schultz laughs, deep and throaty. The guy’s well into his sixties but he could still lay Tyler flat without breaking a sweat. It’s still not enough.

“I’m serious. I hate everything about that scene. The fans scare me, and I don’t like it.”

“I’ve got nobody else, kid. You’re one of the most experienced guys on my books right now.”

“Well, that’s pretty fucking shitty if it’s true. Hire some ex-police, or more ex-Army guys. I know for a fact you got six CV’s yesterday,” Tyler says. There’s a clothing change, and the make-up artists all burst forward for touch-ups.

“Fine, nobody that’s any _good_. They went through my books, saw you. They want _you_.”

Tyler stiffens. Nobody’s ever asked for him by name.

“How the hell do they know who I am?” he asks. He’s intrigued, despite the idea making his skin crawl. Schultz coughs.

“Saw what you did with that intruder who broke into Chloë Moretz’s place. They know you’re skilled in hand-to-hand and all that. There’s buzz around you, kid.”

Tyler snorts, highly fucking doubtful.

“How long for?” he asks. Schultz sighs and rustles some paper, a popular technique of the old guy when he thinks he’s got you on lock and wants to drag it out.

“Seguin’s about to go on tour, all across America and up through Canada. Depending on how the tour does, he’ll go on a world tour-- Europe, Australia, maybe a few stops in Asia. I know you’re not into popstars so I quoted them _triple_ your usual rate. They still fell over themselves to agree.”

“Danger pay,” Tyler says darkly. Teenage girls make him so uncomfortable.

“Whatever you want to call it. You follow Seguin around for six months, keep him from getting molested or stabbed or choking on his own vomit, you’ll have enough to buy a house and take a year-long vacation anywhere.”

“I’d have to be his _minder_ , too?” Tyler yelps. The agent next to him gives him a dirty look, and he shrugs lower into his hoodie. It’s not exactly kosher to be discussing future jobs in front of current employers.

“Yeah, the kid’s twenty but he’s still pretty immature. Since you refuse to smile, _ever_ , they think you’ll be a good influence. They like your degree in sports psychology. Smart, balanced, organised, experienced-- you’re the whole package,” Schultz says.

“Six months is a long time,” Tyler says slowly. He’s not interested in becoming a permanent bodyguard for anyone. He just wanted to do this gig long enough to save up money and figure out what he really wanted out of life.

“Yeah, it is, but it’s triple your rate and you’d be heading his entire security team. You’ll have four other guys backing you and Seguin’s taken classes in self-defense. He can probably handle himself if he had to.”

“But he shouldn’t have to. That’d be why I was there,” Tyler says, cursing himself as soon as the words slip out his mouth.

“So, you’ll do it, then.”

Fuck.

Tyler’s night doesn’t end there. After the photoshoot finishes, Richardson drags them to some dingy underground bar a few blocks over. The drugs flow freely and Tyler watches, unimpressed, as his charge snorts another few lines off some girl’s back and gets his dick out. Nobody notices, everyone too off their faces, and Tyler turns to his phone and opens 2048.

The sun is shining when Tyler drags them both back to the hotel, dumping the borderline comatose actor in his bed and shuffling into the main room to pour himself some coffee. His laptop is sitting on the counter and he logs in, scrolling through the day’s news and opening his emails.

There’s a contract sitting in his inbox, signed by Seguin’s team, and he chokes when he reads the figure they all agreed on.

“Fuck me,” he whispers into his cup. Apparently they were serious.

Tyler prints out the last page, signs it and sends it back to Schultz. His phone rings a minute later as he’s rooting around in the cupboards for the Fruit Loops.

“Yeah?” he asks, jamming it between his cheek and shoulder so he can pour.

“Your current contract has been terminated, and your new one is in effect immediately. Pack up your shit and get on the next plane to Boston.”

“But it’s six in the fucking morning. I haven’t been to bed yet, the motherfucker made me follow him all over New York all night,” Tyler whines. Schultz laughs.

“Seguin’s got a full day of press starting at ten, and he kicks off his tour tonight. It’s gonna be a long motherfucking one for you, then.”

 

* * *

 

Tyler’s first impression of Seguin, besides the fact they share the same name, is that the kid is a bonafide dumbass who’s just asking to get himself stabbed. Or kidnapped.

Tyler arrives in Boston just after eight, lugging two suitcases and a duffle with him, a headache starting up at the base of his skull. He’d done a bit of research on the flight over on Seguin, tapping up contacts in the game to make sure he wasn’t stepping into a trap. The consensus seemed that Seguin was new, pretty clean, and had just made the wrong choice for a bodyguard. Tyler is appeased somewhat-- he isn’t going to miss being surrounded by that many drugs. He hadn’t even said goodbye before he left.

A car is waiting for him as he gets his luggage and heads to the arrivals, a besuited old guy with a sign reading BROWN, TYLER and the record label’s logo flagging him over.

He shoots the shit with the old guy on the way, but falls silent once he arrives at the upscale condominium complex Seguin calls home. It’s not as ridiculous or opulent as it could be, given Seguin’s net worth and the money he’s made this year, which makes Tyler hope it won’t be a complete disaster.

Inside, however, is another story entirely. It’s open plan on the bottom floor, with a staircase leading up to the bedrooms, and the first thing Tyler sees is a huge black piano. It’s well loved, that much is sure, with the chair pushed out on a strange angle and he can see a notepad and some pens balanced on a corner.

The next thing he notices is that there’s shit _everywhere_ \-- shoes, clothes, food, crumpled note paper, pens tucked into every possible nook and cranny. There’s workout gear all over, dumbbells and free weights, with old-school video game machines against the far wall, and one of the biggest plasma televisions Tyler’s seen in his entire life. The whole place stinks like pizza, Axe, sweat and burned dust from the various computers and amps strewn around.

Art on the walls extends to a huge poster of Alessandra Ambrosio emerging from the surf, shirtless and clad in the tiniest pair of bikini bottoms Tyler’s ever seen, and a few sports posters of teams-- the Leafs and the Bruins taking pride of place. There’s a wet bar to the side of the kitchen, impressively stocked, and there’s solo cups on pretty much every spare surface. It is the house of a pig, and Tyler cannot handle it.

“Hello?” he calls out. There’s nobody here to greet him, it seems, even though Schultz had said Seguin’s agent or manager or someone would be there. He drops his suitcases in the cleanest spot on the floor and makes his way further into the condo, hoping to find a passed out entourage member who can tell him what the fuck is going on.

A girl comes staggering down the stairs, slipping on the bottom and almost braining herself. Tyler snaps forward and catches her.

“Who’re you?” she says after she thanks him and regains her footing, voice gravelly. She looks rough, but no worse than anything Tyler’s seen before. He wonders if she’s one of Seguin’s friends.

“I’m Tyler Brown, the new bodyguard. I flew in an hour ago. Do you know where he is?”

She shrugs and reaches for a crumpled pack of smokes on the wet bar, her purse next to them. “I’m not his crew,” is all she says before heading to the door, slipping her purse on her shoulder and grabbing a pair of stilettos from the shoe rack.

Tyler watches her go, the _snick_ of the lock echoing around the room. Jesus.

There’s movement from the lounge and a head pops up over the back of it. The guy looks old, with a beard and he’s bald-- whether by choice or not, Tyler doesn’t know.

“Who are you?” the old guy asks, yawning and wandering over. Tyler’s going to get really fucking tired of that question.

“I’m Tyler Brown, the new--” he starts, but the old guy swears and butts in.

“Shit, the bodyguard! You’re… fuck, it’s almost ten!” he yelps. Tyler frowns.

“I’m Wally, Segs’ agent. His manager had to go back to Toronto for some family emergency. He should’ve been here to greet you,” the guy continues, sounding panicked, heading to the fridge and grabbing a Gatorade.

“Whatever, I’m here now. Where’s Seguin?” Tyler says. Wally points toward the stairs.

“He’ll be in his room, probably showering by now. He’s usually good at getting up in time for stuff,” Wally says, sniffing at his shirt and pulling a face.

“You’re his agent and you party with him as well?” Tyler asks, waving a hand at the carnage of the room. He’s sounding as judgemental as he feels, and considering how much they’re paying him, he should just shut up and do his job. Wally flushes.

“Not usually. My divorce just came through so Segs wanted to, ah… ‘treat me’, or whatever. This is really unprofessional, but there was that and the tour’s about to start so he wanted to have a party. Given the circumstances, we figured it’d be a good way to start things,” Wally shrugs. Tyler privately thinks that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Okay so, we’ll have a meeting when Fred lands this afternoon about your responsibilities and what’s expected of you while you’re here, but for now… just make sure Segs is up, showered and dressed in something he can do press in this morning. Also make sure all his shit is packed, because we’ve got the record label coming to take our shit to the buses.” Wally points a finger at Tyler’s stack in the corner. “Two bag max policy. We get three buses for this tour, which is two whole buses more than we got for the last one. You’ll be on Segs’ bus with Fred, Chase and Blacker. Chase and Blacker are his deadbeat buddies-- Chase is Segs’ driver and Blacker was filling in for muscle before you got here. Now he’ll go back to being Segs’ accountant.”

Stuck on a bus for two months with four other guys sounds like his idea of a personal hell. He’s hating Schultz more and more as Wally talks.

“Who’s on the other buses?”

“Rest of security, vocal coach, make up/hair and wardrobe on the second, band on the third. Sound crew flies to every show, it’s cheaper than another bus.” Wally’s flicking through a mail pile and shoves it at Tyler, along with a laptop and an iPhone stacked haphazardly on another bar. Solo cups clatter to the ground as Wally swipes them out the way.

“This is your work phone, and work laptop. We’ve already reprogrammed everyone’s phones so it reads you instead of Shaw, and your work email account is set up on the laptop. There’s a bunch of spreadsheets Shaw created regarding like, Segs’ routines and known security risks, that sort of thing, but you’ll meet with the rest of the security team in an hour and they can brief you. Your minder duties are a little less specified, mostly because Segs yo-yos between wanting to be a big boy and needing someone to hold his hand while he takes a shit. Up to you guys to work out where those lines in the sand are.”

Tyler’s head is nodding so much it feels like it’s going to fall off, and he adjusts so the laptop sits better in his arms, clutching the phone tightly.

“Segs is a good kid, talented and smart when he needs to be. He’s got a big heart and people will try and take advantage of that-- which is why we allow his dumbass friends to stick around, because they see through the bullshit and keep him safe. For the most part. You’re there to do the same thing.” Wally’s bloodshot eyes and the sour tang of sweat and bourbon belay his words, but Tyler understands the message.

They made a mistake with the last guy; there won’t be another.

“Wally, that you?” a voice calls from the top of the stairs. Tyler turns to look up and yep, there he is. His breath gets stuck in his throat a little, because Seguin is dressed in blue shorts, a Harvard hoodie and a black snapback, but he looks… really _good_. Tyler swallows and manages a small smile, trying to wave a hand. A brown lab comes bounding downstairs, barking excitedly, before tearing off somewhere.

“Segs! This is, ah, Tyler… as well. Tyler Brown. We’re gonna have to sort out the name thing,” Wally says, snapping his fingers at Tyler. Tyler shrugs.

“Call me Brownie,” he says. Wally smiles at him, and turns back to Seguin.

“Well, he’s Brownie. Your new bodyguard and minder.”

Seguin’s answering grin is blinding and he races for the stairs, bounding down them two at a time. He’s barefoot and pulls up short of Tyler, frowning.

“You’re wearing shoes inside. I read your file, we have the same name! And you’re Canadian. Why are you wearing shoes inside?”

Tyler raises an eyebrow and looks slowly at the room. “You’re kidding, right? Your place looks like a dump and you’re asking why I’m wearing shoes inside?”

Seguin has the decency to look embarrassed, muttering something about the cleaners coming in an hour. He then turns to glare at Wally.

“I don’t need a minder, Wally,” Seguin whines at Wally, who pushes a Gatorade at him and opens the fridge, pulling out a stack of breakfast burritos and throwing them in the microwave.

“I don’t care what you think. You’re twenty and your mom would have my balls if I didn’t have someone looking out for you,” Wally says, no-nonsense. Seguin groans and pushes his sleeves up, revealing two heavily tattooed arms. 

Tyler vaguely remembers an article in some gossip rag where Seguin was shirtless and showing off his latest ink. Tyler has no tattoos himself, but he appreciates good art when he sees it. Plus, Seguin takes care of his body-- an adoring public to maintain, of course-- which doesn’t hurt.

“ _Wally_ ,” Seguin says and Wally shakes his head.

“Stop it. The label wants you looked after until you’re twenty-one, so fucking deal with it. Even then, Brownie will still be your bodyguard and waking your fat ass up in the morning,” Wally says. The microwave dings and he pulls two burritos out and shoves them at Seguin, who unwraps one and blows on it.

“You eat?” Wally asks, holding one to Tyler. Tyler has recently decided that being 6’1 and only 168 pounds isn’t exactly the best working weight for being a bodyguard. His trainer gave him huge tubs of protein powder and told him to introduce more fat and iron into his diet, so he’s up to five meals a day which is insane. He eyes the burrito distrustfully but nods, clears a space on the sticky bar for the laptop and phone, and takes the food.

Seguin watches him the entire time from his seat, brown eyes unreadable. Wally disappears to go round up everyone else, leaving Tyler and Seguin alone in the dirty kitchen.

“What?” Tyler says as he opens the fridge and looks over his options. Bud Lite, Gatorade, Coke, Lift and a lonely bottle of aloe vera juice.

“You seem pissed,” Seguin says, picking at his burrito. Tyler bites down on the impulse to tell him not to play with his food, and snorts instead.

“That’s just my default expression, man. I have resting bitch face, my last employer told me all the time.”

Seguin frowns. “That’s not very nice,” he says. Tyler shrugs.

“It’s the truth. I just don’t smile much. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just who I am.”

He decides the aloe vera is the best option and cracks it open, drinking as he eats. It tastes disgusting but he pushes through it, suddenly ravenous.

“You like that shit?” Seguin says.

“Not really, I like coconut water the best. Gatorade’s alright if I’ve got a big day or a workout planned, otherwise I stick to coffee or plain water.”

Seguin nods and falls silent, eating until Wally comes back downstairs, this time flanked by two dudes. One’s got both arms tattooed similarly to Seguin, and the other one looks a little older and is bald like Wally.

“Brownie, glad to have you on board bro. We can start up two-asides again,” the bald one says, grinning. The other guy stops by Seguin and whispers something.

“I’m Brendan, but everyone calls me Chase. This is Jesse, but he goes by Blacker.”

Tyler shoves the last of his burrito in his mouth and shakes their hands, Blacker looking at him a little harder than he’s expecting.

“You used to work with whatshisface, that actor… the one who was in that reboot, y’know, the one with the robots?” Blacker says.

Tyler feels impressed. Nobody knows what jobs he’s worked, mostly because people don’t tend to pay attention to the hired muscle. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

“My sister loved that guy, all his fans knew you. One Direction’s bodyguards have their own Twitter page, same with the guys from Supernatural. Fans love that shit.”

Tyler laughs at that, because _come on_. That’s a whole new level of weird.

“Sorry, but I’m never going public with my account,” he says. He regrets it instantly when Seguin turns on him, eyes wide and grin firmly in place.

“You’re on Twitter? Tell me your name, I want to follow you!”

“No way,” Tyler says, standing up to throw the rubbish in the bin and drain his bottle. Blacker and Chase laugh.

“First test passed-- Shaw was dumb enough to give Segs his name and he had like 65,000 requests before the afternoon was over. He had to take Twitter off his phone because it broke from all the notifications,” Blacker says. Seguin just pouts.

“Alright, car’s here. Brownie, you ready?”

Tyler snorts. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. He’s dressed simply in sneakers, jeans and a hoodie-- he could easily just be another of Seguin’s entourage-- and he has a familiar flash of nervousness shoot through him. It’s the feeling he always gets it before he starts a new job, before the training and experience settles in and calms him.

“Seguin,” Tyler says, and Seguin turns to him. “I only have one rule. You do what I say. If shit gets crazy, you always listen to what I say and you do it, even if it doesn’t make sense or seems stupid. It’s my job to keep you safe and it’s what I’m gonna do.”

Seguin’s mouth goes a little slack but he nods, flashing Tyler a smile before heading back upstairs for his bags.

“Intense,” Blacker mumbles and Tyler shrugs, heading to answer the door when someone knocks. Two bored-looking guys in grease-stained jeans and flannel are standing there, the younger one peering at a tablet.

“Seguin?” he asks. Tyler snorts.

“You’re here for the bags, yeah?” Tyler asks and they nod, so he steps aside and points them towards the increasing pile, once Blacker and Chase dump their gear.

Seguin comes back downstairs soon after, his own suitcases with him, the dog reappearing as Seguin clatters around and calls for him.

“This is Marshall. He’s coming with us,” Seguin says. Wally groans and Tyler raises an eyebrow, but the dog’s all over him and he submits to being sniffed and licked with a laugh.

“I love dogs, no problem with me,” he says. Blacker smirks from where he’s leaning against the dirty bar.

“Marshall looks like he loves you too,” he says, elbowing Seguin.

“Alright, we need to go if we’re gonna make your first interview. C’mon, let’s roll!” Wally calls from the doorway, dressed in fresh clothes and with sunglasses shielding his face. Tyler stands and brushes his hands off on his pants, shadowing Seguin and slipping his own sunglasses on. He already has an exhaustion headache.

*

The tour kicks off that night, Tyler standing off stage and watching Seguin dance around between his band. It’s pretty low-key, Seguin taking to the stage in the same outfit he’d been wearing when he arrived, and changing once when he sweated through his v-neck and jeans. He comes back out in a Bruins jersey and shorts, a matching snapback that sends the crowd wild as he launches into _Boston’s Son,_ the track his album is named after.

“He’s from Toronto but he brings out a song called _Boston’s Son_?” Tyler says to Chase, who’s by his side with a solo cup, dancing along to the heavy bass.

“He moved to Boston when he was thirteen, wanted to play hockey here but ended up blowing out his knee and got into music instead. His parents divorced and his dad stayed here while his mom and sister went back to Toronto, but Segs stayed. He was in love with Boston,” Chase says.

Tyler knows most of this story, had read it in the XXL article that came out the month before, but it’s nice hearing it from someone who actually knows Seguin.

“How do you know him?” Tyler says when Seguin finishes the song and starts talking to the audience, throwing water out over them and laughing into his mic.

“I coached the rec team he joined once he rehabbed enough to play. I’m probably too old to be following a young kid around the country but hey, I figure I’m still young enough to do nothing for a little longer,” Chase shrugs. Blacker appears with a tank top and a few cans of Bud. He offers one to Tyler, but Tyler shakes his head-- he likes to be completely sober, especially in situations like this.

The show finishes a half-hour later, with an encore of some underground song Seguin had released on a mixtape years before; one that surprises Tyler to hear, but he mouths along to the half-forgotten words and keeps an eye on his charge.

Afterwards, Seguin showers and changes and then the whole crew head outside to sign autographs and get into the buses. Seguin stops by the first girl to sign her poster and take a selfie, and Tyler clamps down on the urge to tell Seguin not to lean in so far. He moves a little closer to make up for it.

“Hey, who are you?” one of the girls says to Tyler. She’s short and stacked, and Tyler wonders if Seguin’s going to make him pull her out the crowd to take on the bus. He really doesn’t want to listen to Seguin fucking a groupie their first night together. Tyler raises an eyebrow and Seguin smirks as he signs another poster and leans in for another picture.

“His name is Brownie, he’s my new bodyguard,” Seguin says and the girl smiles at him.

“What’s your real name?” she continues. Tyler wonders if this is going to end up spiralling madly out of control.

“Tyler,” he relents and she laughs.

“You hired a bodyguard with the same name as you?” she says when Seguin takes a picture with her. He blushes, reaching over her to scribble on a ticket stub.

“What can I say? I’ve got a huge ego,” Seguin covers, winking at her and moving on.

A couple of girls get a bit grabby for Tyler’s liking and he disentangles Seguin smoothly, pushing him towards the group of fratbros toward the end.

“I was okay,” Seguin pouts but obliges the fratties and laughs at their praise, calling his show “the fucking _best_ , man!” and begging him to come back.

“I’ll do what I can!” Seguin calls over his shoulder, waving and letting Tyler usher him into the first bus. He’s so tired, and just wants to shower and pass out. He collapses on one of the couches, Chase and Blacker sitting down with him, and listens as Wally tells them they’re going to the airport to pick up Freddy and then driving to Hartford.

“We’ve got hotels there, so not in the bus tonight,” Wally finishes and everyone cheers.

“Freddy is Segs’ agent,” Chase fills in as they hit the road for the airport. Tyler nods and yawns, sinking into the chair and pulling his work phone out. Schultz has emailed him asking how it’s going, and there’s an email from Island with a copy of his signed contract and from the payroll department asking for his bank details. He does that first, because there’s a _signing bonus, what the fuck_ , and he can finally pay off his truck with it.

Debt free is a closer reality, thanks to this kid.

Chase and Blacker want pizza for dinner, and Tyler and Wally aren’t fussed, so they decide once they grab Freddy to hit up a place to eat on the ride to Hartford. Seguin doesn’t get off the bus and lets Chase and Blacker fetch Freddy, who comes stumbling on a few minutes later, bitching loudly about the weather. From his violent shivering, he must have left his jacket behind somewhere.

Seguin gets up and hugs him, pulling off the Harvard hoodie he’d been wearing after the show and pushing it on Freddy, tugging it down over his head.

“Segs!” Freddy splutters but acquiesces and lets Seguin tug it into position before hugging him.

“Good to have you back, man. Did your family get my flowers?” he says. Freddy nods and says something in a low voice, before noticing Tyler.

“Ah, you’re Tyler Brown, the new muscle. Yeah?” Freddy says, extending a hand. Tyler takes it for what turns into a broslap. These guys are something else entirely.

They take over the pizza joint, some legendary local place that Tyler misses completely, but goes halves with Chase in pepperoni and cheese, while Seguin and Freddy get supreme and Wally and Blacker share a vegetarian. The pizzas smells amazing as they’re being slid over the counter in huge boxes, drinks shoved on top and garlic bread to finish, and Tyler frowns when he sees Seguin reaching for his wallet.

“I’ll give you $20 towards it,” Tyler says and Seguin snorts.

“Dude, don’t even.”

“But--”

“Honestly, c’mon now. You’re gonna offend me. I’ve got you. You’re one of us now,” Seguin says, signing with a flourish and smiling widely at the server, who blushes.

“That doesn’t equate to you paying for everything,” Tyler bitches. Seguin pockets his wallet and heads towards the door, taking the pizza from Tyler’s arms.

“I bought you a pizza, that’s hardly _everything_. The label reimburses me for ‘travel expenses’ like this, anyway, so it’s really Island paying for your shitty pizza-- if that makes you feel any better,” Seguin says.

Tyler opens the door and holds it for Seguin, frowning all the way back to the bus. They slide a couple of slices onto a plate and grab a bottle of a Coke for the driver, a grizzled roadie only introduced to Tyler as ‘Barry’. Seguin stays up there for a good while as the rest of them work on demolishing the food.

“So, how was your first day working with me?” Seguin asks, lying on the couch down the back when the pizza is gone and they’ve slipped into exhausted, greasy comas.

They’re a half-hour out of Hartford and Tyler’s looking forward to bed more than anything in the world. They’re all sharing, and Seguin and Tyler are in a room... together. He doesn’t really feel comfortable with being in hotel rooms and on a bus with his boss for the next two months _solid_ , but he figures nut up and shut up.

He shrugs, not sure what more to volunteer. For a first day, it’s gone pretty well, so he says that. Seguin laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes Tyler want to smile too.

“We’re gonna work on getting you to smile more, Brownie,” Seguin sighs, rubbing an eye and yawning. He’s got a cup of lemon and honey tea for his throat, a little sore from the show still, and he looks all of his twenty years sunk back in the leather.

“Whatever you say, Seguin,” Tyler says as he reaches for his phone. There’s a message from his brother, asking how Seguin’s first show went. They’re both fans of his music, which Tyler plans on keeping locked very far away from Seguin and his boys.

“C’mon man, _Segs_ ,” Seguin whines, poking at Tyler with his socked toe. Tyler wrinkles his nose.

“You’re my boss, not my bro,” Tyler tries. Seguin rolls his eyes and pokes harder.

“Same shit. We’re on the road for the next two months solid. You can’t do that to me.”

“Do what, be professional?” Tyler drawls. Seguin laughs and kicks him.

“Seriously. It’s Segs… or Ty, if you want.” Seguin sounds actually kind of shy about it, and Tyler pulls his eyes away to look at the guy-- it’s dark in the bus but he’s fiddling with his own phone, not looking up. Tyler isn’t sure how he should proceed.

“Fine. I guess I can deal with Segs,” he says.

 

As they’re tumbling into their hotel room, large and upmarket and spacious with two doubles spread apart, he figures he’ll live to regret this job when Segs strips to his boxers and crawls in. Marshall’s in the bus with Chase; apparently they’ll rotate through if they’re booked places that won’t accept dogs. Fucking great.

He watches Segs stretch, his abs rippling with the effort and making Tyler’s mouth dry out.

“Night,” Segs yawns as he wriggles under the sheets. Tyler offers up a quick prayer.

“G’night.”

It’s going to be a long two months.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks into the tour and Tyler can’t remember life before it, honest to God.

He’s learning more about Segs every day, and what had started as a slightly inconvenient attraction to an unattainable famous guy is in danger of becoming something _far_ worse. It’s not just the physical. Segs has a great body and they hit the gym almost every day-- Segs insisting Tyler spot him and doing the same, wearing tanks or Under Armor that sticks to him as soon as he starts sweating.

Having to share rooms with him is an issue in that he’s been sexiled five times already, which fucking sucks, and sleeping in Freddy and Wally’s room is an experience he doesn’t like repeating. He, as minder, has the awesome job of ushering the various men and women out of Segs’ room, along with getting him vertical, showered and fed before they go to soundcheck or to media. Tyler’s not the greatest at mornings and neither is Segs, but after two weeks Tyler’s trained himself to get through them with as little conflict as possible.

It doesn’t go so well in Orlando when he’s escorting two guys to the lifts and kindly reminding them of the NDA’s he had them sign before they locked him out his fucking room the night before. He’s just not in the fucking mood for Segs’ shit.

His back hurts from where he fell out Wally’s bed, Segs was too hungover to do anything but dry heave in the shower, and Tyler had drunk himself into a stupor after watching his door shut in his face, Segs giggling behind the flimsy wood.

So, he’d started yelling at Segs for getting too drunk and being a dumbass, and Segs started yelling back about being a killjoy and he was on _tour,_ and the simmering resentment had continued the whole day. Segs compounded it by doing dumb shit with fans, leaning too far over barriers and then he’d _thrown himself into the general admission_ and crowd surfed at the show, for long enough that Tyler felt like he’d ground his teeth right through to the nerve.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? No crowdsurfing, you fucking dumbass!” Tyler had yelled as Segs came off stage, grinning and bright. Segs rolled his eyes and the bitching started back up, to the point where Tyler threw up his hands and went out the dressing room, slamming the door behind him.

Orlando was the worst show, and it’s almost his birthday, and Segs is snoring like a fucking freight train next to him, having come to bed after Tyler fell asleep.

He really hopes Segs’ goddamned stupid mood doesn’t continue because he’s not sure how much more he can put up with it for.

 

* * *

 

They’re in Miami and it’s his birthday, which is neither here nor there. He’s twenty-three and when he wakes up the morning of, he takes a beat to reflect on the strange turn everything’s taken since Schultz offered him the job.

It’s a cautiously optimistic day, he decides, when he showers and trims up his beard, dressing in shorts and a tank. They’ve got the afternoon free and there was talk of going to the beach, which Tyler is definitely down with-- he may be Canadian, but he doesn’t need to embrace the pasty skin. He slaps a hand down on the bed, startling Segs into consciousness.

“Rise and shine sweetheart, breakfast in twenty,” he says and heads out the door. Segs is grumbling and flops back down on his bed as the door snicks closed behind him, and Tyler wanders down and heads outside. It’s winter, technically, even though it hasn’t dipped below 25 the entire time they’ve been in Florida.

He gets a _where u @??_ text from Blacker and heads back inside to the restaurant on the bottom floor, spotting the guys straight away. They’re all dressed like Tyler and have staked out a table in the far corner. Segs is slumped and yawning, knuckling his eye. He looks ridiculously cute like that, and Tyler forgets that he’s pissed for a second.

He gets a black coffee and doctors the hell out of it with cream and sugar, piling toast, fruit and toppings on a plate and sits down a few spots away from Segs. His coffee is almost gone and he’s about to butter his toast when a piece of grapefruit sits itself on his plate, with a candle stuck in the middle. Chase leans over him and lights it with a shiteating grin.

“Happy birthday old man,” he says and sits back while the rest of the table laughs.

He looks up to see Segs, smiling nervously. “Sorry I was such a dick,” he says and claps a hand on Tyler’s shoulder.

“No worries,” Tyler says and leans forward to blow the candle out, flushing as the table erupts into cheers. “Shut up, you idiots! We’re supposed to be keeping Segs low key, God,” he hisses at them all, which only makes them laugh harder.

*

The show goes smoothly-- Segs doesn’t crowd surf, and he stays far enough away from the barriers that Tyler is able to get through the whole thing without any heart palpitations-- and it finishes early enough that they’re showered and on the street before eight.

“C’mon, it’s Brownie’s birthday,” Segs says and tugs them down the street while he flicks through his phone. He settles into walking with them, relaxed and keeping a general eye on the people in case any fans come up, but they’re left unbothered until Segs is flinging an arm out and stopping him.

“We’re he- _ere_!” he crows and Tyler looks up.

“Oh, God,” he says.

Dave and Busters. Of course.

*

It’s probably the best birthday he’s had in recent memory, if he’s honest.

He gets pasta and seafood while the others split between steak and burgers, and they scatter while they wait. Tyler goes with Segs and Blacker, who head for some ticket games while Freddy and Chase head for Batman.

“Dizzy Chicken!” Segs yells and jabs Blacker. Tyler drifts around, keeping an eye on things while the others enjoy themselves, before Segs is yelling for him to come play.

He does alright-- they get almost a half-hour on the machines and Segs lugs an impressive armful of tickets back to the table, demanding they return after dinner. The food is great and the beer flows, Chase ordering bizarre cocktails for Tyler under the guise of it being his birthday, and that he’s getting too old to try new things.

“Hey,” Wally says mildly, making everyone laugh. Assholes.

By the end of the night, Tyler’s stuffing a brownie chocolate cake in his mouth-- _ha, ha_ \-- while Blacker takes Segs to exchange his tickets for a toy. Tyler’s already got himself a poker set, which the guys are insisting they test out on the road tomorrow; fine by Tyler, he’s a card shark and they’re all going down.

“I think you’ve smiled more tonight than the past two weeks,” Wally says, leaning across the back of the bench. Freddy’s next to him, regarding Tyler over his drink.

“I don’t smile much. It’s not a thing,” Tyler says thickly around the cake, swallowing and wiping his mouth.

“Segs makes you smile,” Freddy says. His tone isn’t insinuating anything but Tyler can feel his cheeks heating a little. Fuck, _not now_.

“He’s a nice kid, what can I say? It’s nice not having a coked-up freak to look after. I get off on people listening to my safety advice,” Tyler drawls. Freddy snorts half his beer up his nose and Wally’s still helping him clean up when Segs appears with a huge plush gorilla.

“Here,” he says and holds it out to Tyler.

“What the fuck,” Tyler says.

“Because you’re his gorilla, man. He won you a prize, say thanks,” Blacker says, cuffing him ‘round the head as he climbs into the booth.

“Aw Segs, you didn’t have to do that-- you should’ve gotten yourself something,” Tyler says, watching as Segs sits down across from them next to Wally. He shrugs, that smile back on his face, and he bites his lip.

“It’s your birthday, I wanted to get you something cool as a memory.”

“This tour is going to be a cool memory, I didn’t-- but thank you,” he says, deciding that being contrary is getting boring. The gorilla is hilarious, huge and purple and at least 4’ tall. They christen him Magilla, after the character off that television show nobody can remember, as they head back to the bus. They’re sleeping there tonight, so they can drive to Nashville for the show tomorrow evening, and Tyler hangs back with Segs as they walk back to the lot.

“I’m serious, though. You didn’t have to,” Tyler says. Segs slings an arm around him and leans in close, smelling of clean sweat and his cologne. It makes Tyler’s heart kick a little, painful against his chest.

“You’re one of us now, and it’s an apology and a present all wrapped in one huge purple gorilla.”

“Thanks,” Tyler says quietly, and leans into Segs’ side. Segs is silent, but he grips Tyler a little harder, so Tyler knows he’s been heard.

 

* * *

 

A month and a half into the tour, they’re coming off three crazy shows in Texas and driving all night and most of the next day to get to Denver.

Segs is down the back with his guitar and notepad, strumming randomly and jotting down a few lines whenever inspiration strikes, and Tyler dozes next to him, stretched out on the couch. Marshall’s taken up on using him as a bed the last couple of weeks, and he can’t say he minds-- the solid weight of the dog is reassuring to him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He’s looking over the tour plans; after they finish the west coast, they’re flying to Toronto to start the Canadian leg of the tour, which finishes in Vancouver. He’s kind of sad it’s coming to an end-- while he won’t miss living out his suitcase, getting to be around Segs like this is something he’s come to enjoy. His contract is for six months, but considering how Freddy and Wally constantly go on about how good he is, he has no doubts it’ll be renewed. Does he even _want_ his contract to be renewed? Segs is only going to get bigger and more famous, can he commit to that?

He zones back in to Segs’ strumming and scratches.

“Whatcha writing?” he asks. Segs is always writing something, a new rap verse for a song or a remix he wants to do when he gets a spare minute, so it’s not strange in the slightest. What is strange is the flush that spreads across his face.

“Nothing.”

Tyler raises an eyebrow.

“You’re obviously working on something, dude. You’ve been playing with the melody for like, an hour now.”

Segs goes even darker and pushes his guitar away, his notepad flipped closed underneath. Tyler frowns.

“I wasn’t insulting you, it sounded really nice,” he says. And it did, sound nice-- it was a lot sweeter and softer than his usual stuff, more ballady. The girls would eat it up for days.

“It’s fine, I’m done now,” Segs dismisses and clicks his fingers at Marshall.

 

* * *

 

The weirdness over the secret song continues well through their travels north, while Segs himself gets weirder. Tyler wonders if there’s something he’s done wrong, but it’s… it’s not _bad_ weird, just different? Nice. It’s really fucking nice, is what it is.

Like, Segs starts waking up early to work on this song, and he’ll be cross legged in bed, bleary eyed but focused on jotting down music or playing on his laptop with tune samples, dedicated to his craft and it’s honestly doing nothing for Tyler’s dumbass crush on him.

He also stops bringing people back-- if Tyler thinks honestly, it stopped after Miami. The others don’t seem too fussed about it, and Segs spends more time hanging out with Tyler, asking him about his family and what he was doing before he became a bodyguard.

Those nights are the best ones, hanging out in a pub somewhere and shooting the shit so casually. Everything about Segs is casual, pretty much, and it just helps to reinforce that Tyler’s become one of them so easily.

Segs constantly says how happy he is that Tyler’s around, and he feels safe and all this shit that Tyler gets more flustered about than anything. It’s his job to keep Segs safe, as if he wasn’t going to go out of his way to ensure that in shows and when they’re doing radio spots and promo gear that Segs is kept safe, above all else. Himself included.

They stock up on bus supplies halfway from Denver to Salt Lake City, and Tyler’s on a conference call with Schultz so Blacker goes with Tyler in the store. They’re back within a half-hour, laden down with bags-- Tyler had just asked for Baby Ruth bars because damn does he love the nougat goodness-- but when he goes to the fridge for a water, there’s a stack of coconut water; his favourite _brand_ , no less.

“Segs?” Tyler says, a bottle in hand, feeling confused. Segs peers out from his bunk, a flaphat on his head and a pen in his mouth.

“Did you get me coconut water?” he says, and Segs nods and smiles around the pen, holding it with his teeth.

“I ‘membered you saying you liked it,” Segs says before ducking back into his bunk, leaving Tyler standing there, feeling like a complete dumbass.

 

* * *

 

It’s just more and more of these little moments, really nice ones that make Tyler feel stupid in the head and in his stomach because he’s _never_ had an employer actively give a shit about him like this. He’s always just been a faceless dude, hiding in the background, a second thought. He’s never… he’s never been cared for like this. He doesn’t really know how to respond, beyond thanking Segs furiously and trying to go above and beyond his job.

 

* * *

 

When they fly into Toronto, Tyler gets a billion texts from his brother demanding tickets to Segs’ show-- apparently he tried but they sold out in twenty minutes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tyler whispers in the car on the way to the venue. They check out every place before the show, mostly for soundcheck and security purposes. He’s not really sure how to ask, so he fidgets through Segs sounding off two songs and complaining about his in-ears, as he does every show, before finding a burger place for them to hit up while fielding Segs’ questions about what they should do while they’re here.

“Well, you should see your mom, so…” Tyler trails off after they’ve ordered. “She coming to the show?”

Segs nods, grinning big and wide. They’re in a booth, Tyler and Freddy on one side, with Blacker, Chase and Wally on the other. Segs is wedged in the corner, which isn’t the best place for him to be-- Tyler would prefer him in the middle, but he refused to move when Tyler asked and he was too hungry to argue.

“Yep! She’s got work so she won’t be around until tonight, but she’s bringing my sisters. I’m so excited, I haven’t seen them in months! Hey, didn’t you say your brother was a fan? He got tickets, right?” Segs says.

Tyler shifts awkwardly and shakes his head, rearranging his snapback.

“Nah, he said they sold out before he got a chance. It’s fine, though, I’ll just take some video from backstage,” Tyler shrugs. He doesn’t want to impose, and Segs rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be a fucking dumbass, dude. I’ll hook him up. Find out if he wants to bring his bros with him or whatever, just tell me what they want. He can come beforehand, I’ll take some pictures and stuff as well, or after.”

“Segs… I can’t ask you to do that, it’s not fair,” Tyler says quietly. Segs elbows him and leans in, rubbing his nose against Tyler’s shoulder.

“I want to, and he’s your broski. I wanna take care of the Brown family, m’kay?”

Tyler feels that terrible, horrible flare of warmth inside him, the one that’s only growing bigger with each passing day instead of going the fuck away.

“Okay,” is all he says.

*

So Tyler’s the best person ever when he tells Cody he’s got five tickets and they should come along an hour before the show so they can meet Segs.

“Dude, I fucking _love you!_ ” Cody exclaims when they turn up at the venue, all dressed like fratty losers. Tyler’s missed his brother a lot, so he just hugs him tight and brings him inside.

Segs is all over Cody and his friends, mugging for pictures and signing shirts and hats, asking all about school and hockey and everything else he can think of.

It’s beyond endearing and Tyler hates to break it up, but Segs’s mom and sisters have arrived, and they need time with him too.

“C’mon guys, Segs needs to warm up and you need to get in the crowd,” Tyler interjects. They all whine but slap hands and Segs tells them to come backstage after and they’ll go out for dinner, Tyler’s shout. He laughs and Segs winks, and he moves closer.

“Thank you,” he says and Segs shrugs and bumps elbows with him.

“Seriously, it’s not a thing. Just wanna make you happy,” Segs says. Tyler doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but then a blonde woman and two teenagers are being ushered into the room. The girls bumrush Segs and Tyler goes to move, but Chase grabs his arm.

“Those are his sisters,” he says and Tyler relaxes, smiling as they jump on their brother and start hitting and slapping him for not calling more often. He starts shouting for Tyler to come help him, but Tyler just shrugs.

“I’m off the clock,” he says. The blonde lady finishes hugging Freddy and Wally, and comes over to where Chase and Tyler are.

“Brandon, look at you,” she sighs and hugs him tight.

“Good to see you, Jackie,” Chase says. Jackie looks Tyler up and down.

“So you’re Shaw’s replacement,” she says. Tyler fidgets a little.

“Yes ma’am,” he says. He figures being overly polite right now is good, because he doesn’t want to fail whatever test she has for him.

“ _Ma’am_ , look at him with his manners. Wally tells me you’re from Ontario as well?”

“Yeah, Wasaga Beach. Not too far from Brampton at all.”

“Well, we’ll have to have you and your family down for a barbecue in the summer. No excuses,” she says, gathering him into a surprisingly strong hug and heading off to harass her son.

*

The show goes great and Tyler’s buzzing at the end of it, laughing as Segs comes barreling off the stage after his encore, right into his arms.

“Fucking _awesome!_ ” he yells in Tyler’s face, eyes bright and the smile on his face threatening to explode all over him. Tyler just laughs and follows him to his dressing room, where he bounces around like a ping pong ball, bouncing on Chase and trying to wrestle with Blacker-- to limited success.

Tyler gets a chirp in his earpiece that his brother and friends are trying to get backstage, so he goes to rescue them. They’re all high from the show, buzzing with excitement and stinking of beer, and Tyler wonders if he can get them some clean shirts at least. Nowhere is gonna let them in like that.

The boys trickle into the dressing room and start applauding Segs, who laughs and does a comical bow.

“You liked the show?” he calls and they all start yelling over each other, practically falling over to tell Segs how great he was. His mom and sisters show up not long after, and Tyler’s pressed against the far wall while the speakers blare Yeezy and Segs cools down, wrapped up in a ridiculous cocoon of happiness.

*

Segs lends the boys some shirts and they pile out to Burrito Boyz, Freddy and Blacker trailing behind Tyler.

“Man, I can’t remember the last time I had Burrito Boyz,” Tyler sighs as they hit Adelaide Street, hands tucked into their jackets to protect them against the brutal wind.

“Seriously? Dude, every time I’m back in Ontario I basically live off them,” Segs says.

“They don’t have a shop in Wasaga and I’ve been working in America for ages now, so.”

They take over most of the shop, spreading out over a few tables and stampeding the register to order. Tyler gets a large steak on whole wheat tortilla and guava Jumex-- fuck, he’s missed the food here. His brother and his friends get the same, although one kid gets soy because he’s on some intense cleanse they all give him shit for. Segs gets chicken quesadillas and wriggles his way onto Tyler’s table, plastering himself along Tyler’s side as they wait.

“So, you need to tell me all the embarrassing stories you have on Brownie,” Tyler says, a cheeky grin on his face. Tyler groans at the look on his brother’s face, and of course he launches into the story about how Tyler high sticked him on their backyard rink once and spent four hours in emergency dental surgery to get it fixed.

“That sounds familiar,” Jackie says, an arm on her son’s shoulder. Segs flushes and Cassidy, one of his sisters, leans in.

“Ty sticked Candace in the face and knocked out four teeth, she almost had to have root canal!” she hoots, and Segs groans.

“C’mon, I said sorry! It was an accident,” he says.

“Accident or not, it still happened,” Jackie laughs.

*

They’re supposed to be driving to Montreal first thing the next morning and Tyler’s tired, yawning his way through the conversation at the restaurant. He’s sagging in the booth, pressed against Segs, who slings his arm around Tyler. He’s exhausted and trying to stay on point, and is jostled what seems like seconds later by an apologetic-looking Segs.

“Sorry bud, we’re going to the hotel now,” he whispers. Tyler nods and stretches, his back popping, and he herds them all to the cars. Segs has an emotional goodbye with his sisters, and Tyler hugs his brother and tells him to text more.

“I’ll be on tour with Segs for the rest of the month, but after that I can probably fly you down for a bit, whenever your schedule is clear.”

Cody nods, excited, before his expression turns a little more serious. “When’re you coming back to Wasaga?”

Tyler shrugs. He hasn’t been back in ages, and he misses his family a lot, but work’s work and he’s gotta go where he has to go. Holidays aren’t a regular thing for bodyguards, but he figures after six months following Segs around, he can probably ask for a week or two over the summer.

“Dunno. This contract is for six months, maybe longer. I’ll see if I can come home in July for a week or two,” he says. His brother hugs him again and they head off to their own hotel, and Tyler follows Segs and the boys into theirs. Boston and Toronto are their biggest shows on the tour, so the label springs for individual rooms. Segs and Tyler’s are right next to each other, and Segs hesitates as they’re swiping inside.

“What?” Tyler asks, leaning against the doorframe. Segs bites on his lip and shrugs.

“My mom really likes you. She never invites anyone to ours like that,” he says. Tyler smiles despite himself, the tiredness breaking down what self control he does have.

“My parents would love you, dude. We’ll totally do it over the summer, yeah?” Tyler says. Segs’ grin comes back in full force and Tyler laughs, his breath hitching as Segs darts forward and hugs him. It’s not their usual brohug, brief and more slapping than anything-- this is, fuck, _intimate._ Segs presses their fronts together and pushes his face into Tyler’s neck, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his waist. Tyler hugs back, mirroring his pose, and breathes him in. He smells so good and Tyler’s knees would buckle, if Segs weren’t basically holding him up.

“G’night,” Segs mumbles once he lets go, and head into his own room. Tyler’s door has shut behind him, and he leans against it, looking up at the ceiling until he can will his semi down.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the Canada part of the tour goes smoothly enough-- there’s more tactile shit from Segs, but it blends into whatever he usually does and Tyler is training himself not to think things are important or special only to him, when they’re not.

On the way to Edmonton, it’s two days on a bus with random stops along the border for exercise and stocking up on food, and Tyler’s lying in the back with Segs. Segs is back on his laptop, except with a keyboard this time, muttering to himself as he listens to the playback on his headphones and makes adjustments.

Tyler’s got his personal phone and is listening to music, watching an Eagles replay on the plasma mounted to their bus. Avicii ends and then Tyler startles-- because one of Segs’ songs comes on.

It’s called _Waste_ and it’s from the album he’s promoting on the tour. Tyler didn’t even know he had any songs from the album, but apparently he’d liked this song enough. It charted high, higher than anything Segs had released since he blew up with _Boston’s Son_ , and the message he spends the song rapping and singing about is a nice one. Better than the dumb shit he sometimes releases, on getting wasted and hot girls and hating college, anyway.

 _Just tune out the world,_  
_You can turn me on,_  
_Know I’m just here for you for a couple songs,_  
_Know I’m just here for you for a couple songs._  
_So tell me what your pain is._

It doesn’t surprise Tyler, having been around Segs all day every day for almost two months now, to know Segs is capable of reaching that sort of depth. Tyler does want to, is the thing-- he does want to tell Tyler what his pain is, and know that he’s there for him, even for a couple of songs.

He’s humming the melody along under his breath, not realising it, until Segs pokes his shoulder with his foot. Tyler looks over and pulls a headphone out. Segs is smiling, a really great one for today, and Tyler feels that familiar pull. Shit.

“You listen to my music?” Segs says.

Busted.

“Uh, yeah. I’d heard a few of your songs before I started to work for you, didn’t realise I must’ve downloaded one of ‘em. It’s--”

“ _Waste_ , I know. You’re singing the melody. I figured that’d be the one you like,” Segs says. He looks kind of bashful, but also kind of… intense. Tyler frowns.

“Why’s that?”

“You’re not the kind of guy to be all over my other shit. You like deep stuff, y’know?”

“Dude, I’m not always intense and frowning. I like EDM and house stuff, I like dumb pop stuff…” Tyler snorts, and Segs waves a hand.

“When it comes to music that counts, I mean. I like that you like Waste, y’know? It’s my favourite song on the whole record but the label doesn’t want me to officially release it as a single. It’s not radio friendly. I was like, what the fuck, if Macklemore can release _Same Love_ then I should be able to release this.”

“Uh, _Same Love_ is a little bit different than _Waste_ , dude,” Tyler says.

“I know it is, but it’s still a meaningful song about like, personal shit. I don’t want to be a dude Kesha,” Segs says tiredly. Tyler cranes his head back further and looks at him, and Segs is looking back and Tyler doesn’t really know where this is going, or how to respond.

“You do you, Segs. We’ll all be here for you, just… do you,” Tyler eventually says. He doesn’t think that’s the right thing to say, but Segs smiles and flops back down on the couch, pulling his headphones on, and Tyler goes back to making his way through the rest of Segs’ album, which he apparently has. Huh.

 

* * *

 

Then Calgary happens.

They’re in some dive theatre because Segs’ booking agent double booked the actual place they’re supposed to play in, and found this one as a last-minute replacement. Tyler feels antsy because he hasn’t had time to check out the place beforehand with the team, so they’re all flying blind. It’s an 18+ gig as well, fuck knows why, so there’s beer and shots going everywhere. Most of Segs’ gigs are all ages and people need armbands to drink and you can’t bring that shit back to the show, so it’s more easily controlled.

Drunk people are wild and unpredictable, a variable Tyler hates the most.

Blacker and Chase tell him to calm the fuck down, but he can’t shake the feeling something fucked up is going to happen, and hours later, lying in the emergency room, he really wishes he’d paid attention.

He gets stabbed, because of course he does.

What actually happens is that Segs plays his show, and somehow there’s a drunk motherfucker who gets past the barriers, through security and has a fucking flick knife that he wants Segs to sign just as the show is finishing, before the encore.

Tyler’s out on the stage in a flash, shoving the guy back and inserting himself between Segs and the crazy asshole, swaying on the spot and glaring at him.

“Dude, ‘s your problem? Just wan’him to sign,” he snaps as the knife flicks open.

*

Tyler doesn’t really remember much, it was a blur of noise and heat from the venue, screaming from the general admission and Blacker tackling the guy as Tyler tried to get the knife out his hand, but he gets stabbed almost clean through. It hurts more than anything in his entire life but he manages to stay on his feet, grabbing Segs’ jacket from the floor nearby and tying it tightly around his hand to stanch the bleeding.

He doesn’t see Segs until after the cops arrive and take his statement while the paramedics inspect his hand. They determine he’ll need stitches and cart him to the nearest hospital, Wally coming with him while Freddy and the others clean up the show and join them later.

“Stabbed, how rock’n’roll is that?” Wally jokes weakly. Tyler rolls his eyes and wonders how many stitches he’ll need.

It turns out not too many, and by the time the guys arrive, sweaty and stinking of booze and weed from the show, he’s been patched up and is sitting in emergency while Wally takes care of the paperwork.

Segs is _furious._

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Segs exclaims, his eyes blazing. His frame is taut with anger and Blacker is by his arm. Tyler’s not supposed to have too many visitors at once, clogging up the emergency room, but the guys are all clustered around him.

“What do you mean?” Tyler says, wondering if he should flex his hand and how much it’d hurt if he did. The doctors numbed the area and gave him the good shit to take for the next few days, but he’s not looking forward to when he’s supposed to start weaning off it.

“Why the hell-- he had a _knife_ , you asshole! You should’ve just let me sign it, instead of going fucking Rambo or whatever!” Segs says. Blacker and Chase wince, and Freddy just pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, as if that’s going to prevent them all from being recognised. Tyler’s pretty sure the kid in the corner with the fresh plaster on his arm has his iPhone out and is tweeting about them being there. Fucking great.

“He was drunk and crazy, who knows what he could’ve done,” Tyler says, gritting his teeth as he swings himself off the bed. Wally’s on his way over, waving a hand in the universal come on, gesture. Chase helps him into his jacket and Segs hovers by his side, arguing with him all the way out to the bus.

“You had no right to do that,” Segs says once they’re on the bus and situated. Tyler’s helped to the lounge and then Freddy, Chase and Blacker disappear, leaving them with Wally.

“I’m your bodyguard, dumbass, it’s my job to do that.”

“Well fuck that! You got fucking stabbed, dude, that isn’t cool!” Segs yells. Tyler throws his hands up and groans, regretting it instantly as the weird pull through the anaesthetic shoots sluggishly up his arm, and he brings his hand back down and cradles it. He’s tired and he can smell blood still, hours later. He just wants to shower and sleep.

“Well then, what the fuck am I doing here if you don’t want me to do my job?” Tyler snaps back. Wally sighs and rubs his face, waving a hand between them.

“Stop it, both of you. I got a call from the label while they were stitching your hand up. You’re going back to Wasaga Beach to recuperate for the next two weeks, and they’re sending a short-term replacement from your company.”

Tyler’s jaw drops.

“I can still do my job,” he says. Wally shakes his head.

“Kid, you got seriously injured tonight, and I’m not having you rip your stitches trying some new heroic,” Wally says.

“Heroic-- I disarmed a crazy guy! That’s not _heroic_ , it’s what my job is, for God’s sake!” Tyler yells. Why they’re treating him like he’s fragile and should be wrapped in cotton is beyond him; Segs is the one who needs to be wrapped in cotton.

“You’re going home first thing tomorrow. Your family have been called, your dad’s driving down to pick you up. I suggest you ring them-- they’re all worried.” Wally’s tone brooks no shit and Segs is glaring at him like he could set Tyler on fire if he tried enough.

Tyler counts to ten and reaches for his phone with his good hand, dialing his mom’s mobile and waiting.

“Oh baby, what happened?” she wails down the line barely a second later. Tyler rubs his temple and tries to soothe her. Segs doesn’t move, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning on Tyler’s back while he talks to his family, and the behaviour continues all through to them dropping him at the airport for his flight home.

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” is all Segs says to him, before winding up the window. Tyler’s jaw drops and he splutters while Chase grabs his bags and wheels them toward the doors, yelling for him to hurry the fuck up. Tyler’s pissed that Segs is acting like he failed at his duty for doing what he was supposed to, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Or if he even wants to.

 

* * *

 

Six days after he's sent home in disgrace, he’s only on half a pill to sleep and has started very slow and totally laborious rehab on his hand. The stitches came out a couple of days ago and there’s going to be a jagged scar on both sides of his hand; a gross memory to close out what he had been considering one of the best periods of his life.

The doorbell goes and Tyler groans, hauling himself up from the sofa and shuffling toward it. He’s got his exercise ball in hand and is working on building strength back up, and he’s in stained sweatpants and an old hockey tank top that’s definitely seen better days. He hasn’t shaved pretty much since he got back, not feeling like doing anything, and he regrets all of those decisions when he opens the door and Segs is standing there.

“What the fuck,” falls out his mouth first. Segs startles and manages a small smile and a wave.

“Hi, Brownie…” he trails off. Tyler gapes for a little longer before he remembers his manners and steps aside, ushering Segs in. Segs slips off his sneakers without being asked and Tyler heads back into the lounge, Kayley coming in to see what the fuss is about.

“Wow, your dog is gorgeous,” Segs sighs, dropping down to pet her. She barks happily in his face and slobbers on him, and Segs laughs.

“What’re you doing here?” Tyler asks, once Segs drags himself up onto the couch and tucks a foot under his butt, his elbow on his thigh and palm propping up his cheek.

“I wanted to see how you were,” Segs says. Tyler makes a face.

“You have my number. You could’ve texted, or Facetimed. Whatever.”

“I wanted to see you, then.”

“To apologise for being such a dicksmack?” Tyler says. It’s Segs’ turn to pull a face, but Tyler isn’t gonna let that shit slide. They’re obviously going to have to have a conversation about what Tyler’s job is, and that’s keeping Segs safe-- meaning stepping in front of knives and guns and crazy people.

“It’s my job, Segs. It’s what you hired me for. I’ve gotta… I’ve gotta keep you safe,” Tyler says. Segs’ fingers clench in his pants, matching the clench in his jaw.

“But I want to keep _you_ safe,” Segs says in a burst, and Tyler… was not expecting that.

“What?”

“I want-- I want to keep you safe. I don’t want you to get stabbed or shot or anything, especially not for me.”

“What the fuck, Segs?” Tyler demands, because _what the fuck_. His heart is beating faster, his hand is aching from squeezing the stupid ball so hard, and he tosses it aside and leans closer. Segs lets out a shaky exhale, and scrubs a hand under his cap.

“I like you, Brownie. I like you too much, and it’s fucking dumb, I know, but I’m not… you got _stabbed_ and that’s crazy. Not for me. I’m not worth it.”

Segs is shaking now, and Tyler eases towards him, because this whole thing was a lot more traumatic than Tyler had given it thought to be. Segs is upset, really upset, and Tyler just does the first thing that comes into his mind, and puts a hand on his thigh.

“It’s okay, Segs. _Tyler._ ”

Segs looks up, his eyes red as he sniffles, and Tyler bites his lip and pulls him closer.

“It’s okay, Segs, I’m okay. I’ve been trained in all of this stuff, I can take care of my myself. Let me take care of you,” he whispers, pulling Segs into his arm. Segs’ back is against his chest, and he’s clutching at Tyler’s forearms so tightly they’re already starting to hurt, but Tyler just closes his eyes and breathes Segs in, and lets him calm down.

“I can’t see you get stabbed again,” Segs says.

“We’ll make sure the staff do pat downs before shows,” Tyler replies. Segs shudders and nods, turning so he can look up at Tyler.

“I haven’t slept properly all week. That’s why I’m here. Wally and Freddy told me I needed to come see you and confess my big gay love for you so I can get some sleep while the label figures out if I’m going on an international tour or not,” Segs says quietly. Tyler just grips him tighter and lets the words wash over him. Segs _likes him back._

“I’ve missed you,” Tyler says. Segs blinks up at him, and tilts his chin up a little. Tyler’s eyes are drawn to his stupid fucking mouth, and when his tongue darts out to wet them, it’s all he can do to lean in and kiss him, two months of pining and stupidity coming to a crescendo.

Segs moans into his mouth and twists around in Tyler’s arms so he can straddle Tyler’s lap, kissing him over and over again until Tyler’s hips are jumping up desperately for the friction that Segs’ ass keeps teasing him with.

“Segs,” he moans. Segs smirks as he pulls back, his hat knocked askew. He takes it off and strips off his hoodie and t-shirt, and Tyler’s mouth goes dry. Fuck, his body. Tyler forgot how fucking cut he is, how stark the ink is against his biceps and how he wants to taste every square centimeter of his body.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Segs asks against his mouth, working his hands behind Tyler’s back to push up his shirt. Tyler winces a little as his own hand brushes too hard along Segs’ hip, but he grabs Segs’ hand with his good one and pulls him into the back.

They don’t even do much-- Segs hovers on top of him and jerks them both off; they’re both uncut and he just licks his palm and kisses Tyler until his head is spinning and he’s cresting the ridiculous feeling of Segs pressed against him. He comes first and Segs follows him over, groaning loudly into his mouth before he flops down beside Tyler.

Tyler hands him a Kleenex and wipes himself down, and they lie in the wreckage of his bed, steadying their breathing in the late afternoon sun streaming through his window.

“So,” Tyler says, once Segs starts yawning and rolls onto his back. Tyler can’t help but look at him, his eyes trailing down Segs’ body, past his dick soft against his hip and along his calves, the delicate bones of his ankles at odds with the rest of him.

“So,” Segs echoes, grinning. He laces their fingers together and squeezes.

“I have to come back and work for you. You need to be cool with that. If this stuff is gonna get in the way…” Tyler trails off. Schultz has told him not to shit where he sleeps so many times it’s almost a mantra, but Segs… he thinks this isn’t just nothing. That this could be more.

Segs pouts, but nods. “At least we’ll see each other all the time,” he says, leaning in to kiss Tyler. Tyler kisses back, distracted, but he manages to pull away and palms Segs’ cheek with the hand that Segs isn’t holding.

“I’m serious. You gotta be careful, and I’ll be careful, too.”

“Deal,” Segs whispers. He kisses Tyler again, and neither of them think much more after that.

**Author's Note:**

> [TUMBLAH](http://cathedralhearts.tumblr.com/).


End file.
